ash, ash
by She's a Star
Summary: You're no stranger to how easily things fall.


**ash****, ash**

_by__ She's a Star_

**Disclaimer:** Harry Potter belongs to J.K. Rowling. The italicized bit of poetry is from Sylvia Plath's 'Lady Lazarus.'

**Author's Note:** I actually wrote this a few months ago, and just reread it and decided that I liked it. Ergo, postage. This is set after Sirius' death in OotP, so no HBP spoilers (and perhaps a few inconsistencies).

But, damn it, I'll throw one into the author's note.

(AVERT YOUR EYES.)

No matter what happens, R/S is always going to be canon to me, gosh darnit.

* * *

'How very broken you are.' She says it with a sort of quiet fascination in her voice, and you're immediately struck with a sense of regret. You know it's all foolishness, of course, but such things have (in temporary lapses) ceased to matter, since you lost him.

'Ah,' you reply, unsure of how else one might go about the situation. The air is heavy with incense and a peculiar aura; like rose petals rotting, perhaps. Beauty decayed, and this is something you know quite well.

'You regret this already.' Her fingers trace subtle journeys across your palm, and you harbor slight fantasies of pulling away. Walking out; breathing fresh air, and forgetting. There are days where you'd like to forget. Perhaps there might be a day where you can. This is something terrifying, occasionally coloured beautiful by moonlight.

And only now do you bring yourself to register her words, and you can only almost smile, because there are many things you regret. Some faintly, and others that burn and singe, still; the sorts of things that char flesh and reduce bone to ash. _Ash, ash, you poke and stir, flesh, bone, there is nothing there,_ and he never liked poetry much, you recall.

'You're no stranger to it,' she determines, the corners of her mouth twisting upward. Her lips are a dark, audacious red. It matches the scarf tied carelessly around her head; the bracelets encircling her wrists don't jingle or clang, somehow. You are reminded of Sybill Trelawney, or perhaps of what the poor woman strives to be. You remember with an until-now-dimmed clarity why you hate acting on impulse. As it was, you haven't had much clarity on this particular subject for sometime now (seventy four days, ten and a half hours, and you've made it this long, it will stop hurting, you reason, or at least dull, you await growing numb to it, fairytales, ridiculousness) and just maybe--

'The one you lost.' Her voice compliments the air. It overwhelms with a sense of the genuine mystical, and you know what real magic is, of course, and this is nothing of the like, and still (and still). Her fingers occasionally graze over your outstretched palms; merely out of interest, and you don't know how you've drawn this conclusion. It's just that it seems that she has found no point in searching.

The one you lost.

You don't know where to begin, and so you don't.

'You were separated before,' she murmurs, in a way that is natural and soothing and you find that your hands are shaking, a bit. Without a word on the subject, she pulls away; reaches for a deck of tarot cards and works through them with an undeterminable grace. You silently thank her, and entertain the notion that perhaps she hears you.

Your hands lie flat on the table, palms down.

'You thought -- reluctantly; you're no stranger to how easily things fall,' and she says these things with a professional detachment that seems near-laughable considering her occupation, and still you're impressed (and grateful), 'you thought that perhaps there was a chance.' Her eyes are trained on the tarot cards. Regardless, you can't shake the unwavering sense that she's watching.

'Yes,' you find yourself replying, in a whisper that is weak and hoarse and the sort of thing that ought to be spoken by an old man. You think of the grey in your hair, the constant aching of your bones, the people you've buried.

It may be fitting, you decide.

'The one you lost,' and there it is again, she pronounces the words almost delicately, the final 't' sharp and exact, 'was discontent.'

You live alone now, in that house that he'd darkly referred to as his second Azkaban; the stairs creak and the portrait screams with a regrettably immortal fervor and something in the air is always stale and cold and draining. Sometimes, you find empty whiskey bottles abandoned in strange places -- the room where Buckbeak is kept, under a chair in the parlor (bread crumbs that lead to nothing). One day, you're set upon convincing yourself to move them. They need to be thrown out, of course.

'Yes,' you agree.

She's smiling as she looks up at you, a bittersweetness softening her features. 'Do you think that perhaps he was always destined to be lost?'

'To die, you mean,' you correct her without meaning to.

She shows no sign of surprise. 'It seems that he died many times.' She pauses, thoughtful, and begins gathering the tarot cards back into their original stack. Neatly; carefully precise. 'So many small agonies -- the sorts of things one can't just forget.'

You close your eyes for a moment, just a moment, a split-second, because you know a thousand things about grief. You find yourself counting them sometimes, on the nights you miss him most, and what hurts, what stings is that you understand. Four thousand three hundred and eighty days, and you've counted that too, and maybe he deserves this, maybe he's earned it. Maybe he's always simply been meant to escape. And to rest.

You make a point of looking into her eyes while you answer. 'Yes. I suppose so.'

'Then,' she says; her eyes sparkling (almost black, the sort of thing that might drown someone), '_I_ suppose it might do for you to let go.'

'To forget,' you assume, not quite meaning it aloud.

She smiles slightly. 'I didn't say that.'

And perhaps you should have expected it, because you've done this before. With Lily and James. You've come to understand this, as the years slip by and it's turned into something almost etched in stone.

This pain, the sharpness of it, the relentlessness, it may very well fade in time. You do know this, in some ways.

In some.

'Perhaps you have somewhere to be,' she says as she straightens her shawl, attention fixated carefully upon the tangled bits of fringe lining the edges. It's a reminder, you decide, though you know you never told her about your existing engagement. You nod and stand to leave -- easy-going as Arthur might be, Molly hates to be kept waiting. You know very well that she won't remark on it, now. Not so soon after. Sympathy still dims her eyes every time she looks at you.

Still, the intolerable sweetness of the air suddenly seems especially pronounced, and the feeble sunlight outside welcome in comparison.

You pause awkwardly for a moment; she still won't look at you, and so you finally place the money on the table before turning and heading for the door. You push it open.

In comparison, the air outside is sharp and cold.


End file.
